GRUESOME GEMINI...

The Sublime Irritations of September 2005

Great elephants and farting camels, tiny two-faced twits! Last time, we left you in a parlous position, pursued by dog-headed, bleeding-eyed phantoms! They were the Erinnyes, agents of divine justice! They had come to wreak havoc in your life as they sought vengeance for the crime of parricide, an offence you had committed in the psychic realms and in the sight of all the gods sober enough to remember they had witnessed it. Thus, without further ado, we shall attend to the vile and bitter prognostications for savage September, wherein shall be found more grief than would occur in a month of Sundays, each one of which involves long church services and visits to the family mausoleum.

Pin back your ears, obnoxious types! Attend to Asperitus (that's me, by the way), the bard of bafflement, the prime prognosticator and the hideous haruspex! In awful August, the furies dogged your every step in the monastic confines of your mountain fastness, causing you to flee into the snow. Now, in savage September, you run through ravines and passes with the Erinnyes in pursuit. As jolly Jupiter gropes the private parts of vamping Venus, your flight becomes a histrionic performance, with as much screaming, gesticulating and wittering hysteria as you can manage.

As the New Moon comes in anal Virgo, you decide you will not return to the monastery but seek a new home in the wild and uncompromising distance in an effort to avoid the divine justice that has you in its sights. But what's this? Egad! Mischievous Mercury grinds his way into anal Virgo (eek) and you pass along a tiny dry river gulch and come upon a small village at the other end. You were not so far from civilization at the monastery as you thought, little twits! There, after a considerable wait, you catch a cart to the next village, a camel to the next and finally a bus to the nearest city, all of which takes an age as grim Saturn is in your solar third house, creating delays with public transport. And all the time, the Erinnyes dog your trail!

Eek! How unsettling! As Mercury clashes with Uranus, the idiot god, you decide to dig deep into your financial reserves and flee this terrible pursuit by hiring a private jet. Vamping Venus enters brooding Scorpio and you find yourself dealing with greedy and obstructive officials as you organize your departure from this ghastly region to climes as yet unknown. At last, there you stand! On one side, the door to your aeronautical exit! On the other, the dread Erinnyes, waiting! And then Heaven unleashes its savage and contemptuous worst. The farting of nasty planets fills the cosmic winds as marauding Mars clashes with Pluto, dark god of the underworld, and jolly Jupiter, these three forming a configuration of unutterable horror known as a yod. This is the Finger of God, my two-faced twits! And it's pointing directly at you.

As mischievous Mercury clashes with dark Pluto, you race to your jet and order the pilot to take to the air. But what's this? By my little brown bottle! It's a horror too horrific and horrible to be contemplated, so we'd best discuss it right away. You look up to find your pilot is no pilot at all but one of the Erinnyes! Shriek and double shriek! One of the dog-headed ones is in your very cockpit. How alarming to have your space invaded in such a manner! Is this an hallucination? Or is this the grim reality of the uncanny supernal powers that seek you out? You call upon the flight attendants to save you from this horror but, as vamping Venus in gloomy Scorpio clashes with grim Saturn, you find they too are the Erinnyes! For the first time in your varied and exciting life, as the Full Moon comes in tear-stained Pisces, a cocktail is served in the stratosphere by a dog-headed creature with bleeding eyes. You can only hope there will be no inducements to become a member of the 'mile high' club with such a ghastly thing as this.

As the great Sol Invicti moves into loathsome Libra, visiting yet another Equinox on an over-burdened world, you thrash about, whimpering and whining in that unwholesome and dramatic manner you adopt when you can't lie or buy your way out of a situation. You attempt to throw yourself from the plane but the door remains securely locked against your efforts at escape. And, as vamping Venus gropes the private parts of narcotic Neptune, you look out the window of your jet to find that dark clouds engulf you and fierce winds, rain and lightning come to whip your helpless craft.

Ye gods and little fishes, tiny farting children! What will happen to you now? As I'm feeling rather tired and terribly bored, I think I'll return to the joys of the little brown bottle and the silver tube. Should you wish to read more of this unutterable piffle, return here next month and I'll see if I feel strong enough to make some more of it up. Toodle pip, scrofulous nitwits!